


Ayasâwâc

by AislingSiobhan



Series: Prompts and Gifts [25]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: AU, Domineering!Ronan, Improper use of the fast lane, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Slave auction, Staraccusemas, Tumblr Prompt, post-GotG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5511053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AislingSiobhan/pseuds/AislingSiobhan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had a plan. There was a plan. Only, it went a bit wrong. Peter was a sex slave and Ronan was the Supreme Accuser again and Yondu’s Yaka Arrow apparently wasn’t threatening enough for tall, blue and handsome (and since when did Peter think Ronan was handsome anyway? It was the drugs talking; the drugs made him do it. That was his excuse and he was sticking to it).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ayasâwâc

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sintero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/gifts).



> This is for Anonymous Request #7 on the Ronil Secret Santa Tumblr gift exchange. Also known as Writhingbeneathyou on Tumblr. 
> 
> Enjoy!

I AM SO TIRED. Life got away with me, then family stuff happened, my house got broken into, then I had to leave the Country (see some people when I arrived and go for an obligatory pre-Christmas drink which turned into several). I hope this turned out ok though, and that you all enjoy it. Posting early, since I'm not sure what time it'll be before I get a moment to myself later on today. 

**

**“Ayasâwâc”**

**Disclaimer:** The Guardians of the Galaxy, Ronan, Peter Quill, etc belong to Marvel, Stan Lee, Disney, et co. I make no money from this and own nothing, don’t sue.  
**Summary:** [Ronan/Peter] They had a plan. There was a plan. Only, it went a bit wrong. Peter was a sex slave and Ronan was the Supreme Accuser again and Yondu’s Yaka Arrow apparently wasn’t threatening enough for tall, blue and handsome (and since when did Peter think Ronan was handsome anyway? It was the drugs talking; the drugs made him do it. That was his excuse and he was sticking to it).  
**Warnings:** Slash. Ronan/Peter. Domineering!Ronan. AU. Post-GotG. Alcohol/drug use. Improper alcohol/drug use. Slave Auction. Slavery related themes. Yondu had one job. Tumblr prompt. Improper use of the fast lane? Staraccusemas gift.  
**Rating:** R  
**A/N:** Here’s hoping I ticked all the right boxes and got the characterisations at least partially correct? (First Guardians fiction, check).  
**Title** : “ayasâwâc ᐊᔭᓵᐋᐧ” ᐨ [meaning] “all wrong, completely wrong” [in Maskwachis Plains Cree]. Since I couldn’t find any High Kree online, I went with the Native American Cree language instead; no offence intended? 

_XXX_

**Words:** 5,270  
**Chapter 1**  
They had had a plan. He had had a plan. There was _still_ a plan, dammit! Only, it wasn’t at all going to plan, and Peter wasn’t sure what the fuck had gone wrong, other than, oh about twenty different things. A blue face stared at him from the audience, obvious in the sea of faces that looked back at him curiously or hungrily if only because the look of resigned horror was so familiar; as if Peter had let him down a hundred times before to his own detriment. At Peter’s side, a blue hand darted out to catch him by the upper arm, squeezing tight until Peter stopped struggling. He leaned into the touch against his will, seeking the contact of skin against skin. The hand connected to an equally blue arm, and then to a torso, and a neck and a face that was just as familiar as the _other_ blue face. 

“Would you like us to gift wrap him?” The auctioneer, S’aarf asked, his voice nasally and squeaky and it made Peter cringe as if each word was a dagger, aimed at his face, jabbed tauntingly but never touching. 

“No,” Came the response, curt and strong, none of the curiosity or hesitance of their last meeting this time around. “I will take him as he is.”

“Very well.” The auctioneer grinned suddenly, reaching behind himself to the podium to grab a box which he then thrust forward, aimed at the man by Peter’s side. A blue hand slowly opened the lid, exposing a silver collar. “Enjoy your slave, Supreme Accuser.” 

Ronan didn’t respond other than to give Peter’s arm another squeeze, tight enough to make him gasp. He reached out for the box in Ronan’s place, gripped it against his chest, eyes instinctively seeking out Yondu in the crowd. The Centurian seemed as shocked as Peter was, eyes wide and disbelieving as they took in the sight of the High Kree who was _supposed to be dead_ standing straight and tall before them, hand tight on Peter’s upper arm and other hand clutching his hammer with a white knuckle grip. 

Ronan the Accuser. Peter’s new… Master…

This hadn’t been the plan, for all that they had had one, and this wasn’t what was supposed to happen and neither Peter nor Yondu seemed to know what to do about it. Maybe if Peter hadn’t forgotten to turn off the jamming signal in the Milano, Yondu might not have found him earlier, or maybe if he had brought Gamora with him like she asked, she could have rescued him, or, well, maybe it’s best to start from the beginning? 

_XXX_

“You want me to what?” Peter all but shouted in response to Yondu’s completely serious (but he can’t be fucking serious) order. Yondu’s responding whistle, and the accompanying arrow tip that bobbed in the air at the end of his nose, stopped Peter’s next question midway through, “are you fucking insane?” He ended off trailing into an odd sort of squeaking noise, followed by a loud swallow, which made his Adam’s apple bob and his nostrils flare just enough to brush against the arrow tip. The Yaka Arrow was straight and long, twirling carelessly in the air like the spit over a flame, waiting patiently for its master’s command. But Peter knew Yondu, knew Yondu wouldn’t kill him, but that didn’t mean he could afford to lose an eye or a tongue, some fingers perhaps, maybe puncture a lung or a non-fatal stomach wound would be a nice parting gift?

“I want you to steal me back to the Orb, boy. You gone deaf now as well as soft?” 

“He’s always been soft,” Kraglin muttered from behind his leader. Kraglin was practically Peter’s brother, one of Peter’s favourites, but among space pirates that didn’t count for much. The derision in his voice was the same as it was when Peter was eight years old, when he was eighteen and twenty-eight. As much as they liked or disliked him, Peter was a human: he wasn’t one of them. 

“Look,” Peter tried to placate softly, holding his hands up unthreateningly. “I can’t just steal the Orb back.” He was talking about the Infinity Stone that the Guardians (that was what Peter and his new friends were calling themselves these days) had managed to wrest from Ronan’s control, and in the process saved Xandar from being imploded, saved all the people on Xandar from dying horribly, and become heroes in the process (Yondu and his band of Ravengers had helped too). But the Orb had been left on Xandar, in the custody of Nova Prime, and Peter had traded an empty container to Yondu for his freedom – the last he had heard, Nova Prime had the Orb safely ensconced on one of their other strong holds in the Nova Core region. “I don’t know what planet it’s on. If I did, I still wouldn’t be able to get it. Nova Prime might talk nice shit about me, but she doesn’t trust me as far as she can throw me, with good reason. I’m a dick. I know I am, I’m a lot of things ok, and a thief is one of them, but even I can’t steal from a Xandarian storage unit. I doubt even Ronan could!”

“You won’t have to, boy. If you’d zip it and listen for a minute,” Yondu ordered, as the arrow shifted millimetres closer to Peter’s face, “I’d tell ya. The Core lost it. Their transport was hijacked and they never recovered the crew. Ship was found floating in space, abandoned, bit worse for wear, crew and cargo missing.”

“Ravengers?” Gamora asked. She was standing behind Kraglin. Or, rather, behind the line of Ravengers that separated Kraglin from her anxiously clenching hands. The other Guardians were with her: Drax had four Ravengers holding him back, while Groot was held by a fifth, little twig arms bristling angrily from the safety of his pot, while Rocket scowled and kicked the ground, devoid of his weapons from the moment they were caught. 

“Slavers.” Yondu’s grin was twice as nasty as the thought of losing an eye by way of Yaka Arrow, and Peter didn’t think he was going to much like his sort-of-father’s plan in any way, shape or form, but at least they would have a plan this time around. 

The plan would be simple: find the ship, surround the ship, ravage the ship. Except the ship had already landed on a planet; one right on the border of the Kree-Skull space territory divide. Uranus was a nice enough planet, a little seedy in some parts, and most of the population had abandoned it around the time the Kree and the Skulls really kicked off their war. Then the Kree moved on to their war with Xandar and Uranus was mostly forgotten about, except for the occasional Skrull who rocked up and put a flag in it in the name of their Empire. Now it was less of a planet and more of a mixing pot for the criminal underbellies of various sectors and galaxies. A place where the Kree have no time to ‘pass judgement’ and the Skrulls make use of the various wares they find, and everyone else knows to keep their heads down, shut up, pay up and get the fuck out straight after. 

So the plan was a little more complicated than expected, since it involved sneaking onto the planet, robbing the residents and getting back off again unnoticed. Then Peter made the mistake of actually asking what the plan was. 

He didn’t like it. 

_XXX_

“When I get my hands on Yondu, I’m gonna-” Peter’s threat trailed into silence as footsteps drew closer to him. The cage he was in was cramped and dirty, with laser bars instead of metal so he wasn’t even able to stretch his feet out between them for fear of cutting them right off. His hands were uncuffed at least, and they hadn’t searched him or stripped him so the Orb was still in his jacket pocket, right where Peter had tucked it before he’d been hit on the back of the head and then tasered for “escaping”. 

Yondu had given Peter up to the slavers. The Ravengers arrived with Peter and a few others bits of value they had stolen, the Guardians had been sent on their merry way (including Gamora who offered to be ‘sold’ with Peter, but like the idiot he was, Peter had refused). They were sold to the slavers, who were holding an auction that night. Lots of rich clientele for the Ravengers to pick pocket and their ships to loot while they waited for Peter to steal the Orb and escape, except Peter had reached into his jacket pocket for his lock-picking kit and realised it was in his _other_ jacket pocket. And then he’d been hit on the head and tasered. 

Now he was in a cage, waiting to be sold like cattle (which they didn’t even have in space for fuck sake so this wasn’t even a good analogy) and outside of the room he could hear laughter, glasses clinking together, hushed conversation, and, though this was probably his imagination acting up, money burning holes in peoples’ pockets. He couldn’t hear Yondu, though he knew Yondu was planning on buying a couple of the cheaper, earlier lots, just to avoid looking suspicious on his way out later, once the third last lot – the Orb – was discovered missing. Still, it would have been nice to hear his voice, to _know_ Yondu wasn’t likewise stuffed in a cage awaiting sale (which would mean Peter’s sale too, since only Yondu had stayed behind. The other Ravengers were waiting back on the ship, Peter’s Milano hidden on the outskirts of this particular city so that they could make it out of atmosphere with the Orb… if they made it out of atmosphere with the Orb instead of a master). 

“Next we have lot number twelve,” a voice called from behind Peter. He couldn’t turn around inside of the cage to see, but he was pretty sure whoever had organized the auction had built a wall out of scraps to hide the ‘goods’ from the buyers. Around Peter were more cages, people ranging from middle age to toddlers, green skin, blue skin, purple skin, scales, and fins and all manner of species. Peter was the only human. Peter was the fourth last lot. 

He sat and he listened to each bid, to the shrieks of excitement when people won and the sobbing of any of the child slaves who were dragged forcefully to their new lives. The adults were a little more well behaved, they stumbled and they stammered, and their eyes didn’t seem to focus properly, but after twenty-six lots Peter forgot all about that when someone _finally_ brought him some food. He hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since Yondu had sold him to the slavers, and he gulped down the bottle of water before noticing that there was no lid. He didn’t eat the food, mostly because the bread smelt sweeter than it should and the water had left a taste in his mouth, like, like… he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure, couldn’t think, wouldn’t think, he needed something- what did he need, didn’t know, needed to know… 

And then a hand was on his arm, the laser bars were turned off and Peter could have tried to escape. That had been his plan, sitting and waiting in his cage for the chance to flee, but instead he lent towards the man who dragged him to his feet, nuzzling his face against the slavers throat and _moaned_ at the feel of his skin against someone else’s. 

“How much did you give him?” One of them asked. He was yellow, with spikes on the top of his head and down his arms, and he stared at Peter with slit-pupil eyes. The other was short, green and skinny; not Peter’s type at all, but he couldn’t stop his hands from wandering across the other male’s chest, fingers circling nipples as his mouth moved wetly against a throat, moving down towards his collarbone. 

“The same as all the others.” The slaver made no move to push Peter away. In fact he seemed to squeeze the human tighter. 

The yellow guy pulled them apart, grabbed Peter around the waist and led him towards the hastily erected wall and the stage just beyond it. “He’s human. It was too strong for him. If S’aarf is angry, it’ll be on you,” he warned, leaving his colleague behind. 

The stage was bright, but warmer than the back room. Peter was the last slave to be sold (so Yondu _must_ be in the audience, but Peter’s eyes wouldn’t focus enough to look for him): the Orb would come next, then the Yaka Arrow (which Yondu would command to kill everyone it encountered on its way to meet back up with its master) and then something that Peter assumed was rare or powerful enough to warrant going last. 

“And now for lot sixty-three,” a nasally voiced called out from the center of the stage. S’aarf was tall enough that he hunched at the shoulders but still didn’t look any shorter, his skin was dark and marred by whorls of white and grey, like scars or battle paint that hadn’t ever really washed away. Peter didn’t know what species he was, but through the haze his mind was suddenly in, Peter tried to memorise his face; all the better to later find him with, and kill him. The voice squeaked in the middle of the next sentence, excitement making S’aarf’s throat dry and his palms sweaty: “A very rare commodity, one of a kind. A _Terran_. Such a pretty one too, if I may say so: don’t you agree, ladies and gentlemen?” 

There was a smattering of applause from the audience, a handful of people cheered, one even wolf whistled, but the majority of people stared up at Peter with wide eyes and open mouths, shocked, disbelieving. He shifted uneasily on the stage, arms still gripped by the yellow skinned slaver, and fingers clenching at his sides as he fought the urge to reach out and _touch_. Peter’s eyes met Yondu’s, having sought him out almost instinctively. Yondu, who always came to rescue him when Peter fucked up, no matter how much he threatened otherwise. Yondu’s face was relaxed, his lips curling just the slightest bit at the corners, and Peter knew his fingers were drumming against his thighs even though he couldn’t see them – that’s what Yondu did when he was amused. 

“Let’s start the bidding at ten thousand units. Do I hear ten thousand?” 

Yondu’s snort was loud enough to carry to the stage. He himself had once offered 300,000 units as a reward for Peter’s capture, and he was rather offended by the low starting price for the so-called ‘one of a kind’ Terran. More especially, _his_ Terran. 

“I hear ten thousand, how about fifty thousand? Fity! Do I hear 150,000? You over there? How about 200?” S’aarf continued to speak, pointing at the individuals who raised their hands or their bidding paddles each time the price increased. Yondu’s never left the air. 

Peter swayed lightly, his brain hurt and his mouth felt all fuzzy. He was thirsty, really thirsty, but he didn’t think it would be a good idea to drink the water, even if they offered him some more. Peter wasn’t sure why that was; only that he knew it to be true. His fingers still twitched towards the slaver who held his arms, chest pressed to Peter’s back, arms pressed straight at his sides, and feet between Peter’s own to keep his legs spread and make it harder to throw himself backwards (which he should do, he was supposed to escape, right?) The slaver’s hands were warm against Peter’s arms; even through his jacket Peter could feel him. This guy wasn’t really Peter’s type either, but the human was about five seconds away from tilting his head back in offering, and begging the guy to fuck him on the stage – when a terrifyingly familiar voice called out from the back of the room:

“One million units!” 

S’aarf didn’t wait for Yondu to retaliate, not after his watery eyes met the angry, amethyst gaze and then widened in recognition. “Sold,” he declared, banging his gavel onto the podium twice, “for one million units to Ronan the Supreme Accuser of the High Kree.” 

Yondu’s blue face stared at him from the audience, obvious in the sea of faces that looked back at him curiously or hungrily if only because the look of resigned horror was so familiar; as if Peter had let him down a hundred times before to his own detriment. At Peter’s side, a blue hand – not Yondu’s – darted out to catch him by the upper arm, squeezing tight until Peter stopped struggling. He leaned into the touch against his will, seeking the contact of skin against skin. The hand connected to an equally blue arm, and then to a torso, and a neck and a face that was just as familiar as the _other_ blue face. 

“Would you like us to gift wrap him?” The auctioneer asked, even as he nudged Peter closer to Ronan with one elbow and a foot; pointedly digging into Peter’s ribs or kicking at his shins, until the human moved away from the stage. The yellow skinned alien pulled Peter closer to the crowd, until both Ronan and Peter were off of the stage completely (and when did Ronan even get _on_ the stage? How did he move so _fast_?) 

Peter vaguely heard the word “slave” used, but he ignored it, ears and mind still fuzzy and eyes too busy staring holes into Yondu’s horrified face. “Help?” He mouthed, but it could have been anything from “ham” to “alps” because his mouth just wasn’t moving properly anymore. The yellow alien was still on the stage, whispering to S’aarf (probably mentioning that Peter had been drugged a little too much, if the way the guards suddenly tried to rush them out of the auction room, before Ronan could demand a refund most likely). They were already bringing out the next lot. 

Which was hidden safely in Peter’s pocket. 

Shit. 

Ronan’s hand on Peter’s arm tightened, as Peter made an aborted attempt to launch himself at the door. He had to get back to the Milano and he had to get the Infinity Orb as far away from Ronan and the slavers as he could. And why the fuck was Yondu still just sitting there staring at him? (He should know this, it was part of the plan… buy Peter back, send Peter to the ship with the Orb, wait for…. What? The Arrow! Yondu was waiting for his Arrow and Peter was on his own). 

Peter tried to tell Ronan that the plan sucked, but what came out of his mouth was, “wanna fuck?” Ronan’s response was almost comical. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open, and finally he was starting to resemble the Ronan from Xandar that Peter remembered in lieu of remembering the far more terrifying version aboard the Dark Aster. A blue hand caught Peter’s left at the wrist as he tried to touch Ronan’s face. Fingertips barely brushed across the dark of the paint on Ronan’s brow before the Kree pulled the hand away. His other hand let go of Peter’s arm and splayed its fingers across Peter’s chest instead; keeping the human at least a foot away from him. 

The heat of Ronan’s hand through Peter’s t-shirt made him hiss, drawing in a breath fast and hard, over and over until Peter thought he might choke on them. He tried to curl his fingers down, desperate to reach Ronan’s hand, but the angle was wrong and it hurt Peter’s wrist more than the Kree’s tight grip did to try it a second time. But he wanted to touch. He _needed_ to touch. 

“Please?” He garbled, and it didn’t even sound like English to Peter’s own ears, so the hell knew what Ronan heard as Peter begged from him to take his clothes off… 

“No,” the Kree ordered (and it was an order. Peter’s hands stilled instantly). “Walk quickly.” When Peter stumbled over his own feet, cock throbbing in his pants at the sound of Ronan’s voice because apparently he had an authority kink, Ronan sighed deeply. Ronan’s eyebrows (which were thin, light and hidden completely beneath the black war paint) drew together and his mouth pursed in disapproval, before he swept Peter’s legs out from under him with one arm. The other arm caught Peter around the waist, and instinctively Peter threw an arm out to balance himself, and hooked it around Ronan’s neck. This angle was better, and Peter could turn his face to mouth at Ronan’s throat and jaw, his cheek too if Peter stretched, and Ronan didn’t have any hands free to push him away. “Control yourself.”

It was another order, and all Peter could do in response was moan. It was loud enough to catch the attention of the handful of guards, who were waiting in the hallway, and they grinned at one another and cat-called loudly, shouting congratulations at Ronan and suggestive slurs at Peter – guessing correctly what happened to drugged-up sex slaves. Ronan’s glare chastised them enough for the one who had offered a fist bump to lower his hand shamefaced, but it didn’t keep the grins from stretching the mouths of the other two. Peter got a glimpse of teeth when he glanced over, but Ronan’s neck was far more interesting, so he turned back quickly. Ronan’s gait was unaffected, though there was a light purple flush to his cheeks, which darkened as he came into sight of his own men. 

“Supreme Accuser?” One of them asked hesitantly. He was younger than Ronan, and Peter; barely an adult – but grown enough for war in the eyes of Hala. “The Xandarian?” He nodded at Peter. 

“He is Terran.” Ronan’s eyes slid over the faces of each of his retinue, the way their eyes had narrowed, the tightening of their jaws, clenching of fists behind their backs where they thought Ronan wouldn’t see (but he could hear the leather of their gloves tightening). “He is an old friend: I would not leave him there, nor would I do to him what they so obviously intended be done.” His words were soft, but he gritted his teeth as he spoke, thinking of anyone else touching Peter as he was now, or of Peter’s mouth on the flesh of another. Peter owed him nothing, but yet Peter had fairly defeated him in battle and was owed so much more than this treatment. 

Some of the Kree relaxed at their superior’s words. One still looked hesitant. “I did not drug him,” Ronan said, feeling almost guilty under his warrior’s accusing stare. “And I will not take advantage of him, as I expect none of you to take advantage.”

“Sir!” “Of course not, sir!” “Yes, sir, I mean, no sir!” Came the immediate responses. The staring accuser simply nodded his head slowly, but the hands that were behind his back relaxed and his arms fell to his side. Ronan walked passed them up the ramp of his ship. He returned a few minutes later without Peter, but with more Kree warriors. 

They headed back into the auction building, and Ronan laid his accusations at the feet of those who had dared to break the law of the Kree (for all those who stepped foot on Kree soil were bound, whether they liked it or not, but the law of the Kree). Once all those in the building had been arrested or set free (and the Orb had been confirmed to be missing), Ronan and his soldiers discussed amongst themselves the best way to track down all those who had not been saved. Others were already aboard the Husserl Kalek; their “Masters” in chains and their slaves newly freed, clothed and settled into one of the free communal living areas. Ronan remembered every face that had crossed that stage, every set of wide, frightened eyes, and every race. He was tempted to “forget” about the Xandarians, both of whom had been sold early on in the night, but he was cured of his madness, purged of the effects of Thanos and his Infinity Gems, and he would not be worthy of his title of Supreme Accuser if he ignored those who were in need of his brand of justice. He had planned to wait until the auction was over before acting, but first he saw the Centurian (knowing that the Yaka Arrow would not be going home with anyone but its owner), assumed the Orb was no longer safely tucked backstage waiting to be sold, and then he saw the Star-Lord. 

Something hot and white had clouded over his vision, a rage unlike any he had ever felt before welled up inside of his chest, making his breaths heavy and tight, and his hands were white knuckled, one around his hammer’s handle and the other on the arm of the chair until it cracked. He would have waited, he _should_ have waited, but watching Star-Lord rub himself against the yellow-skinned alien made his gut coil, and acid burnt at the back of his throat. Peter owed him _nothing_ \- not a thing. And yet, Peter had defeated him in battle, Peter had been worthy of his time and attention, and Peter was also someone that Ronan had looked forward to seeing again under better circumstances. 

These circumstances were not such that Ronan had envisioned. 

Yet, once Peter had sobered up and regained his equilibrium, it may work out for the best of all involved if Ronan were to… keep him, for a time. Perhaps. 

He’d keep his hands to himself of course, Ronan silently promised as he shucked his uniform and kicked off his boots. His bedchamber was spare and cold, and he resisted the urge to shiver until he was tucked into the middle of his bed, blankets up around his neck. Only then did he wince, foot touching off of something far too cold to be part of the bedding, and then there was a hand, and another, and another foot also! Ronan’s eyes were wide, his mouth dropped open again – this seemed to be his default response to Peter’s presence. 

“Hello,” Peter whispered. He aimed for sultry. He sounded kind of slurred. 

“Sleep it off, Star-Lord,” the Kree sighed, sounding very put upon as he painstakingly gathered Peter’s limbs in close to his own body and pinned him in place. Arms around Peter’s chest and back, Peter’s arms folded between them, and a leg thrown over Peter’s to hold them in place, Ronan managed to ignore the way Peter tucked his head into Ronan’s bare shoulder, mouthing at the flesh and muscle he found there. He managed to ignore the way it made his groin tighten, how goosebumps broke out over his flesh; how very much he wanted to slot his own mouth against Peter’s and _taste_ him. But he couldn’t ignore the way that after five minutes, Peter drifted off to sleep, unconcerned and unharmed in Ronan’s arms. 

Ronan slept on and off that night, woken by Peter’s mumbling or his stirring, both unfamiliar sensations to the Kree. Sometimes his men rapped on the door, having discovered another slave’s whereabouts or needing something for one of the already rescued victims on board. Once, he woke just to make sure he hadn’t dreamt it all, and only fell back to sleep once he had turned the Terran over, off of his back, and back into the crook of his arm so that Peter’s breath once more fanned against Ronan’s throat and jaw. When he woke the final time, Peter was curled in a ball on the farthest edge of the bed to him, and unknowing what to say or do, Ronan slipped away in his underwear and left Peter to himself. 

When Peter joined him in the shower ten minutes later, he was already naked, and the drug had completely worked its way out of his system. 

_XXX_

“Is that it?” Peter asked, pointing out at the dark of space. In the distance, a tiny blip of silver grew centimetres at a time as the Husserl Kalek closed in upon it. 

“No,” Ronan told him. He was seated in a large black chair, made of steel and leather, embedded in the metal of the walls on the far side of the room. The opposite wall was all clear glass and durasteel. The two side walls were metal, and before them lined Kree and Sakaaran, all armed and ready for when they finally did come upon the ship they were chasing. 

There was a bruise on Peter’s neck, and another on his left wrist, and one particular Kree gritted his teeth at the sight of them. Only the matching bruise on Ronan’s throat, fainter, less fierce, stilled his hand before he could do something as foolish as punch his superior officer (Yon-Rogg took his duty as an Accuser seriously, and that included defending those who had been harmed by those who stood accused). Peter’s frown was infectious, disappointment obvious once he realised they hadn’t found another victim of the slave auction to free, and Ronan’s eyes narrowed in anger in response. He waved a hand imperiously, and the Husserl Kalek sped forward. It overtook the smaller vessel in moments, and Peter watched wide eyed in awe as they came closer and closer, and the ship in the distance grew bigger and bigger until finally they were passed it and—

Then the Husserl Kalek slowed down again. 

“What gives? I thought you were putting pedal to the metal?” Ronan obviously didn’t know what that meant. Two weeks of Peter-isms was hardly enough to be considered fluent. 

“The laws for this area of space were being broken by our acceleration and unsafe manoeuvres. Once we had passed the other vessel, it was only fitting to revert back to our original, correct, speed.” Ronan blinked slowly, unsure as to why Peter’s eyes were narrowing at him. 

“Seriously? Isn’t there a fast lane? Why overtake at all if you’re just going to slow down again? You might as well have just waited.” The Terran rolled his eyes, hands on his hips as he grumbled (mostly to himself). “Not like we’re getting there any time soon at _this_ speed anyway, ugh!” 

And maybe his pouting and complaining didn’t speed the Husserl Kalek up any, but it did inspire Ronan to drag Peter from the room and give him a lesson in subservience. Peter wasn’t sure he really learnt much; in fact, he immediately asked for a second demonstration. 

Ronan was more than willing to comply. 

Who was subservient to whom, Peter wondered smugly, on his back beside Ronan with their arms barely touching, the rug beneath them itchy and uncomfortable but the bed too far away for him to bother crawling to. Their third round was just as informative as the first, but that’s not what Peter said (regardless of what he meant to say, which was something along the lines of “fuck me again, now dammit, now”). What Peter actually said was: 

“I don’t think I understood your point, Sir. Could you show me again?” 

**The End**

**

P.S. Yondu is gonna come looking for the Orb very soon... And maybe Peter is hiding it from Ronan, or maybe Ronan knows and is avoiding temptation, but let them enjoy the downtime while it lasts, eh?


End file.
